


Date Night

by notabadday



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Happy future fic, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5010559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notabadday/pseuds/notabadday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a shot from 3x03, 'A Wanted (Inhu)man', Fitz takes Jemma out for their first post-baby date. You can either have this be set in the canon future or an AU. Honestly, it's just a miracle I haven't written about a Fitzsimmons baby before.</p><p>  <i>Her arms hang limp in front of her, aching from holding the baby, aching to hold the baby. The awkward stance she adopts doesn't go unnoticed and prompts Fitz to take a hold of her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. She reconnects with her surroundings...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Date Night

**Author's Note:**

> Though the fic very much veers away from this exact setting, this was the frame that prompted the idea:

They shift awkwardly in the foyer. Couples pass by, all of them fancier: cocktail dresses and suits that aren’t stained with any combination of bodily fluids. Jemma’s hair is kind of a mess by her standards, but not looking a _complete_ mess has been an acceptable level of effort for weeks. Now, suddenly, she's overwhelmingly self-conscious. She’s forgotten how to do this: how to dress up, the trick to getting her short hair to sit in perfect waves around her shoulders, how to mark a perfect line around her lips to stop neutral lipstick spilling onto skin. She's a fish out of water, a little too dishevelled for this world of formality, her appearance giving away her sense of displacement. The craving to be at home, wrapped up in the warmth of their nest, is written all over her face.

 Her arms hang limp in front of her, aching from holding the baby, aching to hold the baby. The awkward stance she adopts doesn't go unnoticed and prompts Fitz to take a hold of her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. She reconnects with her surroundings.

 Jemma keeps looking at Fitz. It's a nervous twitch. He seems so relaxed. How can he be so relaxed? Shoulders down, one hand in his pocket and each time he turns to glance back at her, there’s a calmness in his eyes that is unfamiliar.

 By the hand, he leads her back into the restaurant she's already walked out of twice. This was her idea, she tells herself, and a good one at that. They need this.

 The hand not in Fitz's discreetly reaches back into her dress pocket before they've even reached the maitre d'. Fingers slide over a warm glass screen as the phone she has only just put away is pulled out again, held away from Fitz's view, not that he can't tell exactly what she's doing. Jemma looks at an empty home screen. Nothing but the time and date. Mixed feelings. She puts it away just in time to greet the maitre d'. She holds strong.

 "Table booked in the name of Fitzsimmons," Fitz says before flashing his wife a close-mouthed smile to mark relief that they've made it this far on the third attempt.

 "Right this way, sir."

 They are led across through the restaurant to a quiet corner, their table an island surrounded by a cluster of empty ones. It's decorated with just three roses, aglow under the dim light of a candle.

 "Fitz. This is lovely," Jemma says with a teary-eyed smile as he pulls out her chair for her.

 "I want you to relax, Jem," Fitz tells her, moving around to his own seat with a careful eye on the hand she’s holding tight to the pocket of her dress. She senses his gaze but doesn’t withdraw. She can’t miss an alert.

 "I know, I just worry that something'll happen and we won't be there," she confesses.

 "Something bad?" Fitz asks with a delicate brogue softening his question.

 "Something bad, or... something new. Like if she started walking and we missed it."

 "She's two months old, Jem, she's not gonna-"

 "No, but something _like_ that... she has new things all the time. You know, she smiled at me yesterday."

 "I still think that might’ve been wind."

 Jemma rolls her eyes. "No, this is her wind smile," she says, imitating their daughter's expression. "It was more gummy than that. She didn't look so pensive."

 Fitz can't help but smile back at his wife as he watches her pull faces. It's one of those times – not uncommon – where looks a little dazed, mooning at her like he's forgotten she’s looking back.

 "That's it!" Jemma points at Fitz's face, concealing her blush.

 He shakes off a laugh and picks up the menu, prompting her to do the same. Jemma stays with him long enough to choose her order, but as soon as the decision’s made, her mind wanders again. It’s obvious from the lines that form between her eyebrows. 

 "Jem, she's fine," Fitz assures her patiently.

 "Is it bad that a part of me wants her to miss me? She didn't even cry when we left. She cries over everything!"

 "She just didn’t want us to feel bad. Selfless like her mum,” he replies jovially, sitting forward in his chair to show her his full attention, blue eyes settling on her with firm intent. She looks down, shy under his gaze, and nods reluctantly.

 "So you think she _does_ miss us?"

 "Yes," he reassures her, before observing the frown on Jemma's face as she looks up and correcting himself. " _No_. She'll be happy playing with Bobbi and then she'll fall asleep, oblivious, dreaming of milk and the sound your keys make when you jingle them in front of her."

 This placates Jemma. They move on to talk about other things: work, Bobbi and Hunter’s latest marital disputes (something about opening the pathways of communication), whether Fitz’s time might be better spent redesigning the car seat contraption instead of continuing his long-winded ritual of three failed attempts before triumphantly locking or unlocking it, how good the food smells, how good the food looks, the last episode of The West Wing they watched together and whether or not they care that Sam’s gone (they don’t), when they will next have chance to visit family back in the UK. Jemma gets caught up in their easy back-and-forth, relaxed enough that the mention of baby-related topics doesn’t throw her off. As Fitz casually mentions the spit-up that now covers his first shirt of choice for the evening (and, regretfully, the lapel of his jacket), she even feels glad to be out for a little bit – a happy escape from her daughter’s bodily fluids, at least.

 Pangs of guilt don’t return until after their starter. Fitz feels his phone buzz in his back pocket and instinctively reaches for it. A sweet picture of Bobbi and the baby smiling into the camera flashes up and he can’t resist showing Jemma.

 “I told you she smiled!” she gushes, immediately on the verge of tears.

 Fitz beams proudly at his phone as he grudgingly puts it back away. The smile it brings to his face lingers. It’s a sweet echo of the bright, new smile that his daughter is wearing in Bobbi’s picture. His lips aren’t quite so full, his cheeks aren’t quite so chubby but it’s those same blue eyes.

 As Jemma looks down, a little embarrassed by how affected she is, he can see the glimmer of teardrops sliding along her eyelashes in the candlelight. He reaches his hand across the table to place it reassuringly over hers but as soon as skin touches skin, she breaks into a cry and moves to cover her face.

 Without hesitation, Fitz moves to her and pulls up a chair from an empty neighboring table. She leans into him instantly, burying her face in his shoulder. Mascara tearstains mark his freshly ironed second choice shirt and he doesn’t give a damn. His arm moves around Jemma’s shoulder supportively, and he whispers into her hair, “Come on. We’ll get them to box up our mains.”

 She hesitates, allowing her breathing to calm. “Are you sure?”

 “Yeah, I’ll put my bossy voice on. Best of both worlds: good food and we’ll get home just in time to say goodnight to Sophie,” he replies, a little too breezily for Jemma to argue.

 “Yeah?”

 “Yeah.”

 When their waiter returns, Fitz explains the situation and watches Jemma brighten up. In no time at all, because suddenly time is passing quicker with the knowledge that they’re leaving, the waiter returns with a neatly boxed-up meal. Fitz apologies profusely again before leaving a generous tip with their bill which, in turn, prompts Jemma to contribute a short written apology on the bottom of the slip of paper.

 Comfortably, like they’ve been doing it their whole lives, they reach for each other’s hands in perfect synchronicity, the beautifully boxed meal-for-two tucked under Fitz’s other arm. They walk out the most contented they’ve been all evening, affectionately leaning into one another as they move.

 “Maybe next time we’ll make it to dessert,” Fitz says cheerfully.

 Jemma looks up at him, tickled. “Count on it.” She presses a tender kiss to his cheek.

 “I didn’t mean-”

 Jemma raises her eyebrows playfully, watching him blush.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always much appreciated. Thanks for reading; I hope you enjoyed!


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